


Turtles in a Bottle

by Zaniida



Series: Open Chapterfics (MCU) [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5MI, Bucky kills a lot of HYDRA agents and he's not sorry, Capture, Don't Try This At Home, FMI, Five Moments of (Nonsexual) Intimacy, Gen, Hollywood-Style Air Ducts, Hollywood-Style Biology, Hollywood-Style Everything, Let's Have Some Fun Here, MST3K Mantra, More Swearing Than My Norm, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Unrealistic Air Duct Infiltrations, Yes I know tasers don't work like that, at this point I'm just throwing realism out the window, bottle episode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:13:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26085493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: When Clint gets captured, Coulson's out of options; the only asset not otherwise occupied is Barnes.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Phil Coulson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Clint Barton
Series: Open Chapterfics (MCU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1490789
Comments: 21
Kudos: 23
Collections: August Intimacy 2020





	1. Into the Depths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ysabetwordsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysabetwordsmith/gifts).



> Hokay! I is back from the total lack of time to make tags and author notes and such. Anyway, this is my major [August Intimacy](https://allbingo.dreamwidth.org/162885.html) piece this month! Ysabetwordsmith challenged me to try the [Bottle Episode BINGO board](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1C1YGiOWDuqDDtdTvGIcj1E150ryeLy_c/view?usp=sharing), and I was able to make my preferred pattern (the Turtle) on that board, so I'm all pumped for this piece even though, realistically, there's no way I'm finishing it in a week.
> 
> Also I think it's neat that the title is a description of the meta elements but also a description of the characters (turtles, clams, whatever, they're still good at hiding from the world, and also these guys are a couple of martial artists with unique weapons so all we need now is some green dye and face masks). _(pauses to imagine Donatello wielding a bow instead of a bo)_
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Man, do I love the drama of getting captured and realizing there's nothing you can do about it no matter how much you struggle against the inevitable. Anyone care to write more of those for my birthday? Can't get enough of 'em.
> 
> Also, brief mention of a nightmare about killing your best friend. And lots of fear for everyone! Let's start this thing out with plenty of trauma, just for context before they end up sitting in a room together and discussing random memories or whatever.
> 
> Another interesting tidbit about this fic: In order to make the Turtle pattern, there are a handful of common tropes/prompts that I need to wholesale avoid. These include Huddle for Warmth, Cabin Fever, Wake from Nightmare, Confess and Be Forgiven, and Help with Grooming/Bathing (among others). So don't expect any of those ^_^

SHIELD has survived the HYDRA purge, but they’re spread a little thin these days: smaller teams, less reliable backup. Coulson’s good at hiding his worries, but it’s a war of attrition, and they don’t have the resources to spare—and the most vital resources of all are their agents.

So when Clint’s panic button goes off, Coulson drops everything to figure out what, if anything, he can send in to rescue one of his best and brightest, along with his teammates. But he’s coming up empty-handed: too many emergencies all at once. And even if he had a few free agents, he couldn’t get them over to Madagascar, let alone Seychelles.

If it’s a HYDRA base, as suspected, and undersea, as suspected, then anyone who gets there in a showy manner needs to be ready to storm the place… without damaging it too badly. Stealth would be preferred, but Clint took their last amphibious stealth plane.

He runs through a mental list of impossibilities: Natasha can’t be distracted from her current assignment, Stark’s too unstable right now, Thor’s off-world and incommunicado, Banner would be a _disaster_ in an undersea base.

Parker would be another disaster, as he lacks any sort of formal training; his latest attempt to handle a handful of criminals had nearly sent twenty-eight hundred civilians to a watery grave.

Many of the others aren’t pleasantly disposed toward SHIELD—what’s left of SHIELD. Doctor Strange is focused on disasters of the mystical kind. Vision and Maximoff are on some sort of spiritual-quest-slash-honeymoon. Rogers and Wilson have gone underground, leaving instructions that they’ll be back when the world’s at stake and not before.

He’d consider asking the X-Men, but the diplomatic issues between the mutants and SHIELD are strained at best, and he’s aware of several issues they’re dealing with across the world. Taking on HYDRA in the middle of the ocean… well, if they had their best heroes on the job, maybe it’d work out, but anything less and they’d risk being captured, experimented on, even turned against their own kind. Too much to ask just to rescue a handful of men.

Which leaves Wakanda. And Coulson doesn’t know enough about the place to make good decisions about how to approach the request or even what sort of help they could offer. But at least they’re close to Seychelles, and with Clint’s life on the line, he’s got to take the plunge.

The help they offer is nothing he could have predicted; he hadn’t even known the guy was there. Under normal circumstances, Barnes isn’t exactly the kind of agent that Coulson would trust, but when it’s a choice between an unstable agent and Clint’s life?

He hands over all the intel they’ve got, and shoves his worries about Clint to the back of his mind; he’s got other fires to fight right now, and while his concern can’t do anything to help Clint, it could distract him from the cases where he _can_ help out.

* * *

Clint’s not used to being terrified—he’s actually quite good at staying calm in a crisis, and he’s never been that concerned about dying in the field—but after being worked over by Loki, the thought of being captured by HYDRA tops his list of Fates Worse Than Death.

They’re the guys who brainwashed Steve’s best friend into a merciless killing machine and kept him on ice for seventy years, pulling him out now and again to run assassinations. If Clint ever had a nightmare these days that wasn’t based around glowing blue eyes or strangling _his_ best friend to death, it’d probably be something like being turned into the Winter Soldier.

But the mission goes south, and while they do take out a number of agents _(including the moron who grabbed him by the wrist, apparently overlooking the fact that he’s got three other limbs_ and a forehead _to fight with)_ , their retreat gets cut off and they’re quickly overrun. He watches both teammates go down.

 _Death before capture_ , he swears to himself.

A taser hits him right between the shoulder blades.

He’s lying on the ground, blinking into the dirt, trying to rediscover his lungs; hands are digging into his pockets, pulling off his equipment, his utility belt. When he starts to struggle, a quick jolt from the taser leaves him muzzy and docile as they secure his arms, knees, and ankles.

There’s no one Coulson could send to rescue him. He clenches his teeth anyway, activating the panic button built into his molar. At least Coulson will know that the mission went south, even if he can’t do a damn thing to make it any better.

“My, my,” a voice says as they manhandle him to his feet. “Barton, isn’t it? Such a talented marksman; how nice of you to donate yourself to the cause.”

His blood runs cold: They know about him.

They want him.

As they drag him toward the seemingly abandoned shack, he tries to kick, to struggle, to shove to the side and get stuck in the doorway and fight back in any way he can manage. But a third jolt from the taser takes the strength out of his knees long enough for them to pull him through the weather-beaten door and around the corner to the decidedly less rustic elevator.

He tries to memorize the sounds as they punch in a code behind his back, but his head is muzzy and he’s still not getting enough air.

And then the floor drops out from under him.

* * *

_Never leave a man behind_ is ingrained into Bucky’s soul—for obvious reasons—and neither he nor Steve would be able to forgive him if he let fear of the consequences get in the way of rescuing Clint Barton, a man who fought at their side when the chips were down and who has no one else in the world who can help him right now.

It’d be nice if they could reach Steve. Or if any of their other allies were available. It’d be nice if T’Challa could do more than lend him some stealth tech and wish him good luck.

Barton might already be dead.

He’s going in anyway.

As he steps off onto the island, he can’t hear anything but the hammering of his heart. Despite his enhanced body and instinctual training, he’s still just one man. Going up against the group that captured him, tortured him, brainwashed him. Who transformed him from a reluctant soldier to a mindless killing machine who even tried to murder his best friend.

And despite Shuri’s extensive work deprogramming his brain, they still don’t know if she’s really chased out the last remnants of the Winter Soldier.

This mission is the first one in recent memory where he’s been self-aware enough to feel actual _fear_. But he’s going to look that fear in the face and dare it to blink first.

There’s nothing of note on the island aside from three little shacks, boarded up and covered with graffiti: _QUARANTINE_. They look long abandoned; only his enhanced senses pick up on the subtle signs of battle that have been carefully obscured. The drag marks lead him to the right building; his thermal goggles point out the ventilation shaft concealed near the back.

Briefly, he debates about sending back some intel—but good intel wouldn’t magically grant Coulson the resources to send backup. Besides, every moment’s delay is that much longer that Barton’s in their clutches, and the thought turns Bucky’s stomach. And any sort of transmission might destroy his greatest asset: surprise.

As swiftly and silently as possible, he rappels down the air duct, careful not to touch the sides. The place must have been built decades ago; it would hardly be this easy to get through a modern installation. But he slips into a maintenance shaft with relative ease, and winds his way around until he finds an empty closet, and he’s in.

The next two hours are a testament to good equipment, as he plows through a small horde of HYDRA guards and scientists, with just one thought in mind: _If even one of them gets the drop on me, it’s the Winter Soldier program all over again—and they’ll claim Barton’s soul as well_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That sets up the scenario; my self-imposed challenge from this point is to write a page apiece on all 14 prompts, and see if that's enough to bring this thing together. With perhaps an epilogue. No idea how quickly this'll work out, but I got it started and that's the important part. Onward and upward!


	2. Tracking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hey, Barton, you in here?” he says quietly, not sure how far the echo might travel_.
> 
>  _No answer, but he didn’t really expect one. Even if Barton’s conscious, clear-headed, and capable of responding, it’s unlikely that he’d recognize Bucky’s voice; they’ve barely interacted. As far as Barton knows, Bucky’s just one more enemy, trying to lure him out again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, by this point, as the timer ticks down to the end of the month, I'm in "research is the enemy" mode. Also, it's just more fun to enjoy unrealistic, Hollywood-style mechanics such as easy safe knockouts, random unknown drugs, air ducts you can easily crawl through, and so on. Ergo: I hereby disavow any adherence to conventional laws of physics, biology, or mechanical engineering, and am going full-bore [MST3K Mantra](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MST3KMantra) on this sucker.
> 
> Also ignoring any story explanation for why "a quick rampage" was more than enough to clear out all the mooks _(seriously? my spellcheck didn't know "mook"?)_ and leave only our two heroes alone in an abandoned HYDRA base.
> 
> Chapter-specific content warnings in end note.

It’s like the army again: go in, kill the enemy, find the objective. Get out again in one piece, if you’re able. Bucky isn’t in a mood to show mercy, and no one who signed up for HYDRA is innocent enough to make him think twice about the slaughter.

Not like he enjoys the killing, but when you have to kill, you don’t hesitate.

Only… the haze has left the air, the alarms are still ringing through the halls, the floors are littered with bodies, and… why aren’t there more guards?

Maybe a couple hundred, total, between guards, scientists, and staff. Pretty much all in the sections close to the elevator, and he’s cleared those out; the rest is ghost-empty. Maybe a few of the scientists are hiding somewhere, but there should be more… shouldn’t there?

With a little bit of fiddling, he manages to turn off the alarms, leaving an eerie silence. The evacuation map on the wall confirms SHIELD’s satellite data: a massive undersea facility set up to house thousands of agents, to train the next wave of HYDRA soldiers in a place no one would think to look. They could have hidden down here for decades, waiting to strike.

So where are they now? Never here to begin with? Or they’ve been sent into the field, leaving a small group of scientists to hide from the world and keep refining their unethical experiments.

Big labs. Giant test tubes. Unnerving remnants of former victims, some of them dead for years, others… more recent. No one left alive, no one to mercy-kill (so far).

But he hasn’t found Barton.

The scent of chemicals leads him to a chair with broken restraints, a pair of dead guards, a scientist on the other side of the room with a broken syringe through his neck. Flung at high speed with lethal accuracy.

Barton’s free. Or was, a while ago—under three hours, as the bodies aren’t yet stiff. Around the time Bucky started his rampage, and it’s not much of a stretch to imagine that Barton took advantage of the distraction. Perhaps he’d been waiting for one.

Given the tray of chemicals, he’s probably dosed with something, which means he might not have gotten far. A quick check of the nearby rooms doesn’t offer any clues—then he runs into Barton’s equipment. He can’t imagine Barton not grabbing his bow, so he didn’t come this way.

Having collected the equipment, he circles back, considering. When you’re in distress, trapped behind enemy lines, about to be incapacitated… you go to ground. Barton’s a sniper, just like Bucky; that means an awareness of places others might not think to look.

His eyes dart up to the large air vent in the corner of the room.

* * *

Before anything else, he locks and barricades the lab doors, and takes out the more obvious cameras; with no one to watch his six, his gravest concern is an ambush.

Between a desk, an overturned office chair, and a small filing cabinet, Bucky works out how Barton got up to the vent, as well as his own way up. The cover has been pulled into place without screws; Bucky doesn’t bother replacing it, as anyone who makes it past his barricade would have no trouble figuring out the only place they could have gone.

As soon as he’s fully inside the duct, he closes his eyes and devotes all his attention to sound. Air circulation. The thrum of pipes, the flickering buzz of fluorescent lights. A slight, distant creak of metal expanding, contracting. Nothing that gives a clue about Barton’s whereabouts.

“Hey, Barton, you in here?” he says quietly, not sure how far the echo might travel.

No answer, but he didn’t really expect one. Even if Barton’s conscious, clear-headed, and capable of responding, it’s unlikely that he’d recognize Bucky’s voice; they’ve barely interacted. As far as Barton knows, Bucky’s just one more enemy, trying to lure him out again.

The next half-hour is spent traversing the maze of ducts, occasionally pausing to listen for any sound clues. If Barton’s in here, he’s not making any noise. It’s cold and cramped, and the crawling reminds Bucky a little too viscerally of boot camp, but at least it’s mostly horizontal, and he’s never been afraid of tight spaces.

(Heights, on the other hand, have terrified him ever since he slipped from the train; he can work through his fear, because he’s used to working through his fears, but rappelling down through the air duct had been almost scarier than the thought of getting caught by HYDRA again.)

Just when he’s wondering if Barton found a more reasonable hiding place, he comes across another branching path, stops to listen, and hears shallow breathing up ahead.

“Barton? It’s Bucky—Bucky Barnes. Steve’s friend.”

The breaths come a bit faster, but there’s otherwise no change in sound.

“Coulson sent me. I’m here to get you out.”

When there’s no further change, he crawls ahead, turning the corner only to take a—

—kick to the face.

He catches the boot reflexively, and Barton struggles in his grasp, panting and whimpering and trying to kick free, to crawl forward, to get away.

“Hey! It’s all right. I’m not gonna hurt you. Coulson sent me.” He backs up, out of reach of the boots, and lets go; Barton scrunches up as much as he can and just lies there, trembling.

* * *

For twenty minutes, he tries to get through to Barton with words, but the little that seems to get through to him seems almost to make it worse. And Barton’s starting to shake.

“Get me out of here,” Barton whispers, shoving against the walls. “Get me out of here.”

“I’ll get you out,” Bucky says, but Barton doesn’t seem to hear him; he’s whimpering again, starting to breathe faster. _Panic_ , Bucky thinks. Could be the drug, could be the situation, could be Bucky’s sheer proximity as Barton passes through whatever’s going on in his head. And if HYDRA has improved its drug cocktails, that could be really, _really_ bad.

The duct is far too cramped to let Bucky do anything useful if the drugs start doing anything worse. Waiting it out doesn’t seem to be working, nor does talking. If not for the drugs, he might try retreating, give Barton time to calm down, but, again, there’s no telling what might happen—and Barton’s tremors are getting worse.

So he goes with the only other option he can think of, and grabs Barton’s feet again.

Good thing stealth isn’t an issue anymore, because Barton does _not_ come quietly. While Bucky scoots backwards through the maze, going by memory _(one positive quality he got from the Winter Soldier program: nearly perfect awareness of spatial details)_ , he drags Barton after him, fending off wild kicks and ignoring the howls and shrieks as Barton scrabbles desperately at the metal, trying to get a handhold.

At the first junction they come to, Bucky makes the executive decision that this much stress on Barton’s system is probably worse than a short knockout; he slides himself off to the side, pulls Barton past him, swoops in past Barton’s flailing arms, and gets him in a stranglehold.

The rest of the trip is much quieter. Eight seconds’ hold, thirty seconds off; a headache later, but he’s not gonna wake up until Bucky stops interrupting the blood flow.

At the vent, Bucky uses his feet to drop Barton’s equipment onto the desk. Then he hangs by his bionic arm while pulling the unconscious Barton out onto his shoulder; it’s quite the balancing act, but then, he’s got more than enough strength to manage it. The short drop cracks the desk, but they’re down safely.

Now what?

If anyone’s left to challenge him, they’d have been alerted by Barton’s cries, and it seems unlikely that they’d have stayed away so long. So he probably took out all the guards, at least. Carrying Barton and his equipment would make it hard to deal with an attack, but he’s fought in worse scenarios. Besides, having Barton wake up at the scene of his recent captivity seems less than ideal, so Bucky shoves the barricade away from one door and heads out, following the signs on the wall to locate the nearest barracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** Bucky killed a bunch of HYDRA agents, and no one mourned. They were doing unconscionable experiments on innocent victims (who get mentioned, but not graphically). None of the deaths occur on camera or get any significant focus.
> 
> Nonconsensual drug use. Something like a panic attack, in a claustrophobic environment.
> 
> Bucky physically drags Clint through an air vent while Clint (disoriented from the drugs) fights him, not knowing who he is. _This is presented as the least bad option._ So is deliberately knocking Clint out. This is not a realistic use of a stranglehold and should not be taken as advice for how to safely knock people out.
> 
> My [previous research](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10970223/chapters/24424050) says that there is no safe way to knock someone out for more than a few seconds without the risk of death, so... please don't try. However, there are some ways to deliberately induce unconsciousness in a martial arts environment -- martial artists knock each other out for practice (or, well, you bring your opponent to the point of K.O., and they tap out), so it's at least safe enough to be used regularly by practitioners on each other. Which isn't to say there's zero risk, only that the risk is low enough that the benefit of knowing how to apply the hold outweighs the chance of killing your sparring partner.
> 
> (Also, apparently I should be calling it "stranglehold" when it's blocking the blood, as opposed to "chokehold" (which is about blocking air, and is worse). Okay then.)
> 
> Oh, and don't use office chairs as part of random furniture piles to get up to air vents. Seriously not safe. Hope you knew that.
> 
> Next Chapter: Clint's POV. _rubs hands gleefully_


	3. Disorientation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They’re dead and you’re alive. I’d like to keep it that way.”_
> 
> _Ways to lure him out, put him off his guard. Recapture him_.
> 
> _But he’s already off his guard, by himself, disarmed, barely able to stand. Drugged. What would be the point of doing it this way?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I managed another update before the end of the month.
> 
> So much for getting this done in something approaching a timely manner. But progress is progress! (Also I'm glad that [Allbingo](https://allbingo.dreamwidth.org/162885.html) has no official deadlines for fills.)
> 
> Tangentially: Allbingo's September challenge is [I Want Fries With That!](https://allbingo.dreamwidth.org/166195.html), a chance to focus on characters with disabilities in a non-stereotypical, non-reductive manner. And while this fic isn't written for that challenge, I'm glad that I was able to get to the point of depicting disabilities during this month. Clint and Bucky share a specific disability that this chapter draws into focus, and it's not the usual form of Deafness / Hard-of-Hearing that Clint is presented with; I found a different condition that isn't too out of place for Bucky even while joining the 1940's armed forces. More on that in later chapters, but one of my squares was Atypical Neurology, and I love that I found something they could share.
> 
>  **Content Warnings:** Besides disorientation and a brief attempted suicide (quickly stopped with no damage), the big one is a major section of vulgarity near the end. As always, when I make use of vulgarity/swearing, it's to a purpose; it feels like the right use of language at the time, where the situation warrants it, the characters are the type who could conceivably use such language, and no tamer language suffices to get across the intended meaning. But it's rather extreme, so be aware.
> 
> There's also minor panic and another stranglehold, 'cuz why not? Hollywood physics/biology away!

The room is swaying, his head is pounding, there’s strain on his neck, pressure on his stomach. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, but that just makes him dizzier; he feels banged up and hung over all at once, his arms hanging loosely down from… something.

He fades in and out, hazily, his breath hot against his own face, against… fabric… not the… not…

Something got him. He was trying to get away but it grabbed him, it dragged him through the ducts and he couldn’t get away and now it’s _got him_ —

He twists in the monster’s grip, but it’s tight, impossible to break. His kicks beat the air, finding nothing to kick against. He beats his fists against the body, but it’s a bad angle, and the creature doesn’t even flinch. He’s too weak to pull himself up, to find a better line of attack; it’s going to take him to its lair, take him there and _eat_ him, and he can’t—

Words fold over him, and… it’s not a monster that’s got him, it’s worse, it’s _people_ , it’s HYDRA and they said they wanted him, they strapped him into the chair they shot him up with chemicals they talked about breaking him down they are trying to make _him_ into the monster.

A monster who would follow orders, kill Coulson, kill Nat.

 _Death first_ , Clint vows again, viciously, and his hand finds the dagger strapped to his captor’s thigh.

Seconds later, he’s slammed to the floor, breathless as the shock of the move lets his captor regain his weapon, and Clint despairs of even being allowed to kill himself. There won’t be many more chances.

There’s pressure on the sides of his neck, and he barely manages to recognize a stranglehold, to start struggling uselessly against the implacable grip, before it saps his strength and pulls him under.

He wakes, more slowly, on a cot of some sort, the too-familiar remnants of adrenaline making him feel jumpy. Something’s wrong, but he doesn’t have time to assess; he has two choices, quick action or pretending that he’s asleep, and he was never that good at the latter.

But when he vaults to his feet, the room spins mightily, and he winds up sprawled over the cot beside the one he woke up on.

With difficulty, he manages to prop himself up against the wall, in the corner of the room, and holds himself there for nearly twenty seconds before he accepts that being vertical and on the edge of passing out is no improvement over being horizontal and at least able to see and talk. Even if his captor showed up, what was he going to do, fall on them?

Besides, he realizes—eventually—the door is on the far side of the room, maybe twenty blurry cots away. He’s got nowhere to hide, short of making a cot barricade, and he’s really not feeling up to moving heavy objects. Not even his own body, really.

The door opens, and Clint sucks in one panicked breath and tries to get to his feet again, wishes he’d taken a little time to hunt for a weapon, but—

“You kajissi’ down ferra while,” the voice says, and he _knows_ that voice. Low, a bit gravelly. One of the scientists from before?

Doesn’t look like a scientist. More like a guard, but… not a HYDRA guard, not really. Not pointing a gun at him, for one. At least, from what Clint can tell through blurry eyes.

The guy walks over to a cot—still on the far side of the room—and sits down, simply observing him. “Look,” he says after a moment, “I got no idea what they doschu with. No idea how to counterit. And I can only guess what the withdrawal might belike.”

Clint strains to make sense of the words. _What they_ —the scientists?— _verb, with_. _How to counter it_ , to counter whatever the scientists did. _Withdrawal_ … oh. _Dosed you_.

 _Straining against the bindings as they fill the syringe, chatting like he’s not even in the room. The lab coat drawing near, gripping his arm—the needle finding his vein_ —

“I’d calfer help,” the man says, drawing Clint back to the present, “bucheeld must be down to the bottom of the barrel if they godda call _me_ in.”

The loud breaths— _his own_ breaths, fast and panicky—aren’t making it any easier to pull apart the sounds into words and sequences that actually convey meaning. He half wishes that the man was closer—he’s always had an easier time making sense of mouth sounds if he’s able to watch the lips—but the distance is good, it’s safe. Saf _er_ , at least.

“So we gotta waded out.” The guy sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “Still, there deaden you’re alive. I’d like to keypit that way.” He holds up a bottle of water. “Feel up to drinking a bit?”

Like he’s going to drink from a stranger’s hand. While in a HYDRA base. Could be anything in that bottle.

 _They’re dead and you’re alive_. Who’s dead? His teammates? _I’d like to keep it that way_. Keep them dead?

No. Keep _him_ alive.

HYDRA obviously would like to keep him alive, for their experiments, but…

Something’s off here.

“Who are you?” Clint blurts, half regretting the engagement even as the words pass his lips.

“I’m Bucky—Bucky barns. Steve’s friend. I, er, I tryta telyu earlier, buchewer kinda out of it.” He pauses. “Coulson sent me.”

A wild hope springs up inside Clint’s chest, instantly smothered by far more rational suspicion. “Steve’s friend,” “Coulson sent me”… ways to lure him out, put him off his guard. Recapture him.

But he’s already off his guard, by himself, disarmed, barely able to stand. Drugged. What would be the point of doing it this way? Why not just troop in and grab him, hit him with another taser? It doesn’t make sense.

But if Coulson sent him… Coulson knows the mission went south, knows that Clint’s dead or captured, knows it’s likely HYDRA—he wouldn’t send a man in alone.

Wait. _They’re dead and you’re alive_. Maybe he lost his team. Maybe he’s all that’s left.

“Where’s the rest of your team?” he asks, dreading the answer. The thought that they might have lost even more good men, just to save _him_.

“Isjis me,” the guy says. _It’s just me_. “There wasn’t anyone eltsu could get herein time.”

Just the one guy?

 _Bucky_. Where does he know that name?

Steve’s friend. Yeah. Bucky Barnes. They fought on the same side, briefly… the airport battle.

Clint strains to recall more information about the guy, maybe something he could ask to confirm the identity, but his head isn’t working right. He needs help. Something… his head is spinning. He needs…

If it’s Barnes—the _real_ Barnes—then he’s got a, he’s got a metal arm. But he’s too far away for Clint’s blurry eyes to make out any detail, and Clint doesn’t want him closer until he _knows_.

“Barnes,” Clint says warily. “Metal arm.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thatsa nother treat those fuckers gave me.” The guy holds out his arm, twists it around as if examining it for the first time, then taps it against the frame of the cot—a good metallic _clang_. “Actually, would it help if I said ‘Fuck HYDRA’?” There’s a mix of grim and grin in his voice when he says it. “Fuck them up the ass with their own flagpole and then shove in a copy of whatever demented manifesto they’re following these days.”

The words are fervent, and enunciated with such emphasis and clarity that Clint has no difficulty picking up the intent. The vulgarity catches him so far off guard that he can’t help but crack up, and suddenly the room is filled with laughter, the two of them on opposite sides sharing in both the absurd imagery and the fervent desire to bring ‘those fuckers’ to their knees in a far less salacious fashion.

As the guffaws fade to chuckles, Clint decides that’s good enough for him.

“Bring that over here,” he calls out. “Don’t think I could make it if I tried.”

The guy covers the distance at a reasonable pace, giving Clint plenty of time to get used to the idea, and then they’re seated across from each other. The guy takes a good swig of the water before offering it to Clint, and then Clint is gulping down a bottle of slightly bitter water and hoping he’s made the right call.

It’d be nice to have an ally in here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got only a couple more days before Creepyfest hits. I've just completed a dark Lokiwhump one-shot that I hope to post on the first, and I've got to polish up the update for _Unseen Things_ and finish up the update for _Before the Norns_. Hope to possibly complete BtN within the month (no promises, no idea how likely), and get at least a few updates for UT (I have most of two chapters written for that), and throw in a few shorter pieces, all focused on the suspenseful and creepy.
> 
> A reminder that Halloween is, as always, the deadline for the [July Prompt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25014925), in case you wanted to throw some votes at my [Voted Focus Fic list](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/899210). I've got [roadblocks](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/961696) that are reducing my ability to make progress on my focus fics, but they are high priority for me, and just because they haven't seen updates in a while does not mean I'm not working on them (e.g. _To the Victor_ has most of the next chapter written up, just I've been struggling with the snarky banter and the tail end of the chapter, so I keep working on it, then pushing it back on the shelf for a bit, then coming back to it).
> 
> Other than that... hoo boy, look at all these fics being juggled all at once, why do I do this to myself? but at least fics are being updated. Moving on!


	4. Sound Shifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Bucky get to talking, and the difficulties in communication lead to a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sold on how in-character my portrayal is, primarily in the dialog; I don't know Bucky that well, and I had to stop myself from spending way too much time studying the [small amount of dialog](https://fangirlfiction.tumblr.com/post/179880586318/every-bucky-barnes-line-in-the-mcu) we have from him in the MCU.
> 
> I _would_ wait to see if a beta reader could go over that with me, but there are many other fics that are _road blocked_ and in need of beta reader attention, whereas this piece at least could be posted without, so I'm trying to get this out faster and with less concern about accuracy. Hope it's good enough for what it is.
> 
> I'm having fun with the dialog shifts, but I'm not sure how much longer to keep them up; maybe the full fic, maybe not. But this is the chapter that explains what's going on, and why Clint has trouble making out what Bucky is saying.
> 
>  **Content Warnings:** Clint's feelings about his disabilities (permanent and temporary) are complicated. Also, there's a short (two-sentence) flashback to Bucky's captivity that deals with the surgery to fix his arm, and it's not pretty.

As the water settles in his stomach, Clint takes a long moment to assess. Nothing currently attacking him (assuming the water’s just water). No visible threats except for the guy in front of him, who is _likely_ who he claims to be and, by extension, _likely_ an ally. No odd sounds or smells in the room, nothing that seems out of place for the barracks in a long-empty HYDRA installation. In fact, it’s eerily silent in here: Just him and the other guy quietly breathing, and his stomach rumbling a bit, and the mechanical airflow keeping the place livable even this far underground (underwater?).

He’s… sore, around the wrists, the shoulders, a few other places—basically where he fought the restraints, and a lingering ache where he got hit by the taser (three times in five minutes)… generally not feeling his best on a purely body-integrity level. Blurry vision hasn’t cleared up; that’s probably whatever they dosed him with, and it’s still a little hard to think but maybe getting better? _(Don’t trust that: People who are mentally impaired often imagine that they’re thinking more clearly than they are.)_ He feels a little warm, but that could be anything.

Tired, too. He can push that off a little longer, though; safety first, sleep later.

The other guy’s arm is pretty clear from this distance, and it seems like the kind of thing that’d be hard to fake. Besides, if they were gonna fake someone to put him off guard, why someone he’s met? And why a guy with a recognizable _metal arm?_

Could Barnes have been brought back to the side of HYDRA? Seems unlikely. According to Nat, the Soldier speaks Russian in the field—when he speaks at all—and he’s cold, calculating, lethally efficient. If told to recapture Clint, the Soldier wouldn’t sit there patiently and chat, let alone curse his masters that graphically.

Besides which, Clint got loose barely a couple of hours ago, and he’s an unarmed, drugged-out escapee in an installation he probably can’t escape, on an island he _definitely_ can’t escape. Why send a high-level operative in just to grab _him?_

The rest of the details don’t seem to contradict the tale. So… okay. Time to trust.

He takes a deep breath and observes, “No alarms.”

“Yeah, I turndum off,” Barnes says casually. “Nobody around to hear the many more.”

“Dead?”

“Think they deserved mercy?”

A dark laugh rumbles from the center of his core. “Never.”

“Glad t’ear we agree on that. You, uh, you wanna come with me? I found the mess hall.” He motions at the water bottle. “Or I could go rustle up some grubbin bring it here.”

How long has it been since he ate? He’s lost track of time. More than a day, he thinks, since they captured him, and they hadn’t fed him. He considers the sensations in his stomach: not hungry, not really; maybe a little sick. Probably a good idea to get a little something in there.

But… “Not sure I can walk,” he admits, hoping that’s not a mistake.

“You hurt?” Barnes asks, glances over his legs.

“Just dizzy,” Clint says, suppressing the urge to shake his head. “Tried to get up earlier; didn’t last long.”

“Oh.” Barnes shoots him an affectionate grin. “Wouldn’t be the first time I helped a buddy limp around.”

As they make their way down a too-large hallway with too many doors, Barnes keeps him steady with an arm around his waist, while Clint’s arm is around Barnes’ shoulders. They go slowly, and Clint wishes that he could make out some additional info on their surroundings, but that’s literally all he can make out: space and doors, and a few blobs of color on the walls.

Given that his normal vision is 200/20, on par with the hawk from which he takes his code name, it’s kind of insulting to have to rely on someone else’s eyes. Whatever this effect is, he hopes it’s not permanent.

“O cave-eye callyu Clint?” Barnes asks. “I’m good with jiss Bucky; half the boys in Brooklyn were name-James.”

 _Clint, Bucky, James_. It takes Clint a moment to put it together. “Yeah, um… Clint’s fine. Listen, I… it’s harder to make out what you’re saying if I can’t see your lips. Sorry,” he adds impulsively; it’s hard not to feel apologetic for the way his own brain impacts his teammates.

Steps falter. “Oh,” Barnes says quietly.

Barnes doesn’t speak again until they’re sitting at a table, across from each other. Clint’s cautiously sipping a cup of powdered milk and looking dubiously at the survival crackers when Barnes takes a deep breath.

“Myantad scarlet fever,” he says. “My cousin got to serve as a co-talker.”

Clint has to mull that one over for a moment. The link from _cousin_ to _aunt_ gets him the first part, but it still doesn’t seem related to anything, and he has no reference for “co-talker”; maybe it’s slang from the war?

“You’re not fully deaf, though, right? Just… impaired?”

Oh.

“I’m, uh… I’m not deaf,” he clarifies. “My ears are fine, it’s just… my brain isn’t good at figuring out how to divide the sounds. And sometimes it mixes up which sounds they are. Bit like dyslexia, but for spoken language, instead of written.”

Barnes stares at him, silently, for long enough to make it uncomfortable.

“It’s called Auditory Processing Disorder,” Clint adds.

More staring. Then Barnes opens his mouth, only to close it again. Eventually, he manages words, but they’re strained: “That’s a… condition? Ailment?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Enough people have it that it’s got a name?”

“Uh… one in fifty kids at least, maybe even one in twenty. Boys more than girls. They’re still researching it, but it got identified, what, fifty, sixty years ago?”

Barnes takes a shuddering breath, blinking a little more than he was a minute ago. He swallows. “I’ve spent my hoe life trying to figgerout what people are saying. Like, the sounds nautics actly making sense until I think about them a while, and sometimes not even then. It’s easier with people I know, but still…” His hands clench on the table. “And they _tested_ me, they said I could _hear just fine_ and it wuzzna nuff to get me outta the draft, but… I think they thought I was faking it or something. Boot camp was _hell_. This is a real thing?” he asks, almost desperately.

“It’s real,” Clint says slowly. “It’s… brain miswiring or something, I don’t even know. You’re born with it, or… there are some other ways to get it. Injury, illness, old age. But mostly it seems to be genetic. At least, that’s what they told me.”

Barnes vaults to his feet fast enough to make Clint flinch, but he just turns and heads for the cupboards, roots around in them for more food.

 _Needs time to process_ , Clint thinks after a moment, as his own thoughts rocket back to his childhood. How everyone had him convinced that he was dumb. How he got told, in so many ways, that being bad at _school_ meant he’d never be good at _anything_. How every piece of life had been stacked against him: absent mother, alcoholic father, poverty-stricken neighborhood. Teachers blathering away and not bothering to take any personal interest in his progress.

The accident. Foster homes.

Running away to join the circus, like his life was some sort of comic book. And finding out, for the first time in his life, that he _wasn’t_ dumb. That he was capable of learning things, and learning well—of mimicking tasks that he could see, and outperforming in the areas of sight, speed, and dexterity.

But it wasn’t until Coulson had taken him in that he’d finally learned what was “wrong” with him, or ways to counteract it.

“So I’m nachiss dumb,” Barnes asks as he sits down again, laying out a few more tins. He opens his own water bottle and sucks it down like it’s air and he’s drowning.

“You’re _not_ dumb,” Clint agrees. “They call a lot of people dumb; _that’s_ the dumb thing. But this thing… your brain works fine. Mostly. Just not great at processing sound, that’s all. And people develop… strategies. Little tricks. Ways to hide it.”

Barnes’ laugh is half hysterical. “Yeah, I did that.”

“There’s, um… there’s exercises you can do to make it a _little_ better. Train your brain. It’s easier when the brain is young, still growing, but… if we make it out of here, we can get you the right info to get started on that.”

“ _Cry sake_ ,” Barnes swears fervently, and buries his face in his hand.

When he surfaces, a long moment later, his eyes are wet.

* * *

As Clint is finally forcing down a couple of survival crackers, Bucky gathers himself enough to give voice to a little of the turmoil running through his head.

“A couple decades too late for me,” he says. “But if they’d known… if they didn’t think I was faking, then I would’ve been… unfit. Back home, helping my mom. Getting letters from Steve.”

It’s hard to think over how much would have changed, just with that one little switch. IV-F on his form, instead of I-A. Or even I-B, so he wouldn’t have been on the front lines; maybe he could have served his time and gone home.

Maybe he’d have gotten a wife, a handful of kids. He’s never been all that ambitious: a decent job, a steady paycheck, a good home. A chance to share a beer with some friends, now and then.

He can’t even remember what leisure time was like for him, before the war.

And Steve…

“Steve would still have gotten the serum,” he muses aloud. _Because nothing short of death or maiming could have persuaded him to stop trying._ “But he wouldn’t have had to rescue me. Wouldn’t have broken the rules and risked his life on a fool’s mission… wouldn’t have become a hero.” Then he chuckles loudly, and shakes his head. “Nah, hell, he’d have found some other way to become a hero. Anything he could for his country. Might’ve ended up on that same stupid plane.”

Clint, who’s washing down the last cracker with a swallow of milk, shrugs a little and raises his eyebrows in seeming agreement.

“So maybe he’d still be here,” Bucky says. “Learning a new world, and helping defend the planet. And I’d be… dead, by now. Maybe some of my kids would still be around. I’d never have been… taken.” He swallows, the familiar ache of his shoulder finding his awareness again. A bullet-quick flash of memory: the fall, the cold, the pain. Being cut open—no ether or Pentothal, just bindings to hold him still while they sawed.

He shoves the memories down, wrenching his thoughts away.

“Steve… wouldn’t have tried to find me. After the… after Washington. Wouldn’t have dropped everything to protect me.” From being taken. _Again_. _(He has to focus to unclench his fist.)_ “So he wouldn’t be on the run. Maybe he and Stark would still be friends.”

Clint scoffs. “Given their differences, I cantsay how long that friendship was gonna last. And they did still disagree about the cords… strongly. Butcheah, Steve wouldn’ta been protecting the guy who killed—um.”

“They’d still be dead,” Bucky says, without emotion. “If HYDRA hadn’t sent me, they’d have sent someone else.”

“Seems t’be a theme, with them. Cut off one head—”

“Yeah.”

There’s silence between them, a moment’s contemplation.

“You still hungry?” Bucky asks.

“Nah. Not for _these_ , anyway,” Clint says, tossing the cracker tin across the room; it makes a loud metallic _clang_ as it bounces and skitters off behind one of the counters.

“How you feeling?”

Clint pauses, apparently taking stock. “Sore. Not great. Good enough to move, though.”

“Wanna try to get out of here?”

Another moment’s consideration. “You came alone?”

“Last resort. Coulson didn’t have anyone else to send.”

Tapping the table, Clint looks away and sighs harshly. “I don’t know what they dosed me with.”

“Well, now that you’re coherent again, we should be able to get you to a hospital. And they’ll—”

But Clint is shaking his head. “If Coulson’s outta vassets then he’s out of quarantine units.”

“Quarantine?”

“Jew have any idea what SHIELD deals with on a daily basis?” Clint meets his eyes, holds his gaze. “We get sent in to handle the _weird_ stuff. Threats that the cops and the military can’t deal with. Aliens, bizarre plant life, dimensional portals… magic, if we’re a loud two callit that; I know some folks who disagree.”

Gazing up at the ceiling, Clint takes a couple of deep breaths. “This place is—was—home to scientists who sign dup for one of the worst terrorist organizations on the planet, with a long history of digging up supernatural arda facts and experimenting on everything they could get their hands on. And whatever they’ve put in me, we have _no idea_ what it’s a fecsar.

“And when you’re dealing with stuff you were never trained for, you bring it back to basics. Unknown substance: _Quarantine_. So you don’t bring back contagion, or worse. Hole up for at least two weeks, maybe a month.”

Bucky mulls that one over. “Weeks, huh?”

“Give it time enough to show the threat.” Clint hesitates. “ _You_ weren’t compromised. And this stuff probably isn’t airborne, or they’d have taken more precautions. You could head back, tell Coulson—”

“I could be wrong,” Bucky drawls, “but Coulson seems to really care about you. At least, that’s the impression I got over the phone.”

Clint goes silent, betraying nothing with his expression.

“Seems to me that if I left you here alone, with who knows what in your system and no way to call for help, well, that’d be a pretty crummy thing to do to the guy who called me in here when he had no one else to turn to.

“Besides,” he adds, “thanks to HYDRA, I know what it’s like to struggle through withdrawal on your own. Ain’t a picnic.”

“We don’t even know if withdrawal is an issue,” Clint points out.

“True enough. Lucky for you, it just so happens my dance card’s free. And this place is a bit more… interesting… than playing shepherd in Wakanda. Although I do prefer the fresh air.

“Ought to let Coulson know what’s going on, though,” he adds. “So either we find a way to contact him from here, or we get back to my plane long enough to let him know that you’re alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes**  
>  Contracting certain diseases, including Scarlet Fever, was one way to go deaf. They were pretty serious a century ago; we've gotten a lot better at dealing with them.
> 
> Given Bucky's disability in this fic, "boot camp was hell" because when he couldn't readily understand orders, everybody thought he was faking it (or being lazy or inattentive), so he got punished more than the other guys.
> 
>  **Translations**  
>  This was time-consuming, but also kinda fun, because it let me exercise my knowledge of phonemics (sound units within a given language) and phonetics (sound units independent of any specific language). I had to go over the dialog repeatedly to figure out where certain bits would be harder to understand if you had this kind of disability.
> 
> One easy switch is just moving the Plosive (p b t d k g) at the end of a word to the start of the next, since that's literally where the sound break is: "sign dup" (signed up). Sometimes for sounds that aren't plosives: "outta vassets" (out of assets); "the many more" (them anymore).
> 
> Moving or dropping the division between words, or adding one, gets swaps like these: "myantad" (my aunt had), "arda facts" (artifacts), "nautics actly" (not exactly), "what it's a fecsar" (what its effects are), "cry sake" (Chrissake = Christ's sake).
> 
> Sometimes it's getting off on the wrong mental foot for a phrase, and thus getting other words wrong: "if we're a loud two callit that" (if we're allowed to call it that).
> 
> Sometimes the sound from one word gets swallowed up by another, especially with Affricates (J, CH), which are already combos (d+zh, t+sh); Y can also shift this way: "name-James" (named James), "nachiss dumb" (not just dumb), "Jew" (d'you = do you), "Butcheah" (but yeah). "Disagree about the cords" (disagree about the Accords) combines the vowels to make one disappear.
> 
> This also happens with "co-talker" (Code Talker); Code Talkers are one role that Children of Deaf Adults (CODAs) could take during the war, using sign language to transmit messages more secretly.
> 
> And the weirdest phrase in this chapter: "O cave-eye callyu Clint?" (Okay if I call you Clint?)
> 
> This is the kind of muddling that changes languages over time, as we find ways to make the sound sequences simpler or, sometimes, more complicated. It's a fascinating area of study.
> 
>  **Swearing**  
>  I was trying to figure out an era-appropriate strong curse that Bucky could use, assuming a general Catholic or Catholic-adjacent upbringing in the 20s–40s, but also a guy who was raised in that era of Brooklyn (bit cruder culture, as I understand it), has been through the military (more exposure to swearing), has no specific reason to strictly self-censor (that is, not a "must always watch what I say" type), has been through enough hell to justify any level of swearing he feels like, and has just been hit with a stunning revelation about his own brain and its effects on his life. I think "[Chrissake](https://stronglang.wordpress.com/2015/01/02/for-chrissake-lets-blaspheme/)" fits the bill.
> 
> College-age-me is still cringing at the use of any blasphemy-adjacent swear word, but she'll just have to deal.
> 
> ("Using the Lord's Name in vain" isn't about the wording, anyway: It's about trying to use God's authority/reputation to claim something contrary to His will. There's a verse about avoiding vulgar language, but the Commandment has little to do with swearing. You know those televangelists who are like _"The Lord sent me a vision that we are to raise a million dollars, so reach deep into your pockets--"_? _That_ is what the Commandment prohibits. Especially if the guy's a grifter.)


End file.
